While in Paris for the recent couture week, I found a pink iPhone under my seat at the Chanel show. No one called to claim it, so I’m sharing the file below, with hopes that the owner will read it and be in touch.

Hi from Couture in Paris. I’m Mitzi and I’m 10, and fashion crazed, and that Style Rookie Tavi blogger girl who poses in weird outfits, then gets big show invitations, free clothes from Miu Miu and press for being so weird is officially on my nerves. She’s 14 now, which is old. I think the fashion world should discard her like they do hot new designers every year. But never mind. I have to tell you about my week.

First, Anna was on our Air France Flight 007 to Charles de Gaulle. My mother is important and cuts lines, but I never saw anything like this. In a big fur coat (made of gerbils?), she was taken right past the most elitest status lines and security. Who is she, Kim Kardashian? When we left with our Louis V’s at the baggage claim, she was still waiting for hers, looking bored. The moral is even a priority has to wait sometimes.

Sunday night the Ritz was busy. We had a bath in emollients and then Mom took me as usual to the bar downstairs. When I went to use the bathroom, guess who was in there with a scrawny man? Kate Moss! “Shh,” she said as she let me in. “Don’t tell anyone.” I was too in shock to do my business, not just because she had a man but because they were smoking. In school we are taught to nag adults to stop it, but she seemed so nice and simple (I don’t mean stupid) in a striped T-shirt and jeans that I couldn’t. My mother told me that the scrawny man is a Jamie Hince, who Kate will marry to compete with the other Kate this summer. As she was leaving, I asked if she would be in any couture shows. “No, I’m just here to watch,” she said.

Maybe she’ll get some fresher ideas for her Topshop collections?

Notes from shows:

At the Alexis Mabille show in the Musée Bourdelle on Monday, there’s a 4-year-old girl in a tiara, an Agnelli, two princesses and one lady in a leopard coat with a little dog that pees on the marble floor. The lady looks down, yawns, and throws one teeny tissue on the puddle as if that’s enough to make it go away. I ask if her coat is real leopard. She looks bored by my question. “Of course,” she says. “I hate fake.”

Me too, and the Chanel show next to the original store on Rue Cambon is the real thing, except maybe for some lips and faces. Pastel colors! Bugle beads! Mini-tutus over skinny jeans! Plus I see the greatest actress of all time, Kirsten Dunst. Have you seen her work in Bring It On? I eavesdrop and hear her talking to the man next to her about quitting smoking. He is Pedro Almodóvar. My mother says he makes movies about women and nervous breakdowns. And that’s what I almost have when I see Charlotte Gainsbourg on the street nearby. I am so excited. She looks so bored.

Maybe giving off too much energy is bad for your skin?

Valentino is in a mansion of a Rothschild, whatever that means. We sit under chandeliers with three princesses, a Schwartzman and two Santo Domingos. (I steal name tags from chairs for my socialite trading card collection.) The pale-faced models walk like zombies in airy ruffles and pleats, looking so dazed and bored I want to trip them.

Backstage after the show, when everyone is drinking bubbles, talking Italian and pretending to kiss each other, I see a little girl with her father, who is an investor or something. She’s pouting and pulling on his hand. How can she be bored after a fashion show in a mansion in Paris? Maybe if you’re bored, people will think you’re picky and important? Does it make them want to give you attention, invitations and free clothes?

Uh oh. It’s late and even though I’m wide awake over here with jet lag and gummy bears (the M&Ms of fashion people), my mother says I have to stop now.

When I get home, I’m going to practice a bored face every day. I want to try to reflect like the moon, not give off like the sun. It’s like Anna and Charlotte and Kirsten being so bored as Sofia’s C’s Marie Antoinette. But it’s also very me, Mitzi.